Deep Lacerations: Chapter 29
A/N: There's some profanity here. Okay, a lot. In two different languages. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Not realizing that he was mimicking Ziva's moments from before, Agent Gibbs paused at the doors to Observation. Unlike Ziva, however, he knew what—or rather, who—was on the other side of that door, and his hesitation came from being unsure how welcome his reception would be once he opened it.
Still, he had a job to do, and he wasn't exactly well-known for caring about how other people reacted to his presence. He opened the door, slightly surprised to see both Ziva David and Sonja Gracy standing by the large two-way mirror. "Ziva," he said. "The man said he wanted an experienced interrogator. I think you know what he was talking about. And make sure he knows who he's dealing with."
She smiled, nodding slightly as she made sure that her Star of David charm was visible above her shirt. She appeared in Interrogation a few seconds later. "I don't think this needs to be recorded," Gibbs said to the tech sitting behind the computer. "And why don't you take a break."
"Yes, sir," the man replied, hitting a few keys before he rose from his position.
Gibbs waited for the door to close behind the tech before turning to Gracy. She was still in the exact same position she had been in when he entered, her body stiff, her eyes fixed into the room. "I should apologize," she finally said, still not turning to face him. "I shouldn't have hit you. And I know I told you to question me like you would any victim's wife. I guess I just wasn't prepared for it."
"I didn't come here for an apology." The words might have been gentle if they had been spoken by anyone else. Even considering they came from Gibbs, they didn't sound too harsh.
"No, you didn't," she agreed, her voice dull. "I want to kill him. I want him dead, I want him hurt, and I want to be the one to do it."
"No, you don't," Gibbs said, moving closer to her. They were both facing forward, their shoulders almost touching. "That's not going to get you what you need."
"You killed him," she replied. "The man who killed Shannon and Kelly. You killed him. Did it give you what you needed?"
In some respects, yes, but not in the way you're looking for, he thought but didn't vocalize. "You aren't me," he reminded her. "You're a doctor, not a killer."
"I killed a man today."
"You saved a woman today."
"By killing a man," she repeated emphatically, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were red, her cheeks stained with tears, but her expression unnaturally flat. "They teach you how to clean a gun, to break it down and put it back together in less than two minutes, to load it, aim, to fire. They show you the motions and tell you how to use your weapon to save another life, another hundred lives, but never do they teach you what it feels like to take a life." She shook her head, looking away. "I took an oath… Back in medical school, we used to have these ethical discussions. Is it okay to kill a patient if doing so ends their suffering? Does it make a difference if they request it or are too far gone to do so? One of my classmates, a real aristocratic, blue-blood, comes from a long line of doctors prick, said once that doctors can't be soldiers, because of the distinct dichotomy of the missions—to save a life, to take a life. We argued, and I just got so mad… It almost came to blows, I was so upset… Scott was still in Intelligence training and I hadn't seen him for months. He would call me, but I never knew when he was going to call, and he sounded a little off whenever we talked, and then this Arsch who didn't know anything about anything has the nerve to talk about the military and what he thinks it means to be in the military and the type of medical care that he felt they deserved and—." She cut herself off and turned back to face Gibbs. "I killed a man today, Gibbs, and I know I did it to save Mahida, but still, I killed a man, and I'll never be erase that, and I don't know if I want to."
She started crying again, and without knowing how it happened, Gibbs found her in his arms again, comforting her as she cried on his shoulder. "Yes, you killed a man today," he finally said, "but you're not a killer. You are not a killer. You did what you did to save a life, and you might have to do it again someday, and it'll never get easier, because you're not a killer, and you know that." He held her close, his hand at the back of her head. "It's over now, Sonja. Musawi will get what he deserves. He'll never hurt anyone else again."
"It's not over yet." She pulled back from him, staring him right in the eye with a new intensity. "Colonel Hauser is still out there."
With no children in the car and on the way toward a suspect who may or may not have an idea that they were coming, Gibbs' driving was up to its usual standards. Gracy didn't seem to care; her body was stiff and angry, her eyes focused forward, as if somehow willing the car to go faster to get them to their destination sooner. Like the ride to Suitland, the car was silent, but this time, it was determination that kept them from speaking, not anger.
As before, they were waved through the gates at Ft. Belvoir, the guards barely glancing at their credentials before Gibbs hit the gas, the car accelerating toward the INSCOM headquarters. He pulled into a space marked "General Officers Only" in front of the building, turning to Gracy as he shut off the car. "You sure you're ready for this?"
She turned to face him, that same focused intensity still in her eyes. "I've been waiting fifteen months for this, Gibbs," she said. "Don't you even think about telling me to stay in the car."
He couldn't help but smile slightly. "As if you'd listen," he replied, stepping out of the car. "Let's go."
They flashed their credentials again at the guards just inside the building before heading up to Colonel Hauser's office. "Agent Gibbs, Major Gracy," the surprised secretary said, half-rising from her chair. Gracy flinched at the address, but didn't comment on it. "I, uh, I didn't know we were to be expecting you."
"You weren't," Gibbs replied shortly. "Is he in?"
"Well, yes, but—" He didn't give her a chance to finish as he pushed open the door to Hauser's office.
"Sonja, Agent Gibbs," the Intelligence officer managed, practically mimicking his secretary as he started to get up. "This is unexpected."
"That's the point, Colonel," Gibbs replied. He circled around to the back of Hauser's desk, grabbing his wrists roughly and being careful not to trap any pieces of the colonel's digital camouflage uniform in the handcuffs as he slapped them on, maybe tightening them a bit more than necessary. "You're under arrest."
"What? For what?" Hauser asked, seeming genuinely confused.
"Treason and conspiracy to commit murder to start with," Gibbs said calmly. "I might add some more, depending on how creative I'm feeling."
"Treason? Are you mad?" the colonel asked. Seeking an ally, he turned to Gracy. "Sonja, what is he—"
She interrupted him with a loud slap to the face, making Gibbs grimace as well; he knew how much that hurt. "You bastard!" she hissed. "Sie hässlichen—You fucking bastard!" If it weren't for the seriousness of the situation or the fact that he was somewhat concerned Gracy's next move would be for the replacement Sig in her holster, Gibbs would have laughed at her word choices and seeming disregard for either one language or the other. "You were his commanding officer, but more than that, you were his friend! We celebrated Elisabeth's wedding with you, we vacationed in Baden-Württemberg with you, we asked you to be our son's godparents, and you sell him to a band of fucking terrorists? For what, Lars? Money, misplaced national sentiments, safe passage through the enemy's land?"
At some point in Gracy's diatribe, Hauser's face became cold, his voice icy. "Verpiss dich, Sonja." Although Gibbs had no idea what the colonel just said, Gracy apparently didn't like it, and wound up to deliver another teeth-jarring slap to the face. "Isn't this police brutality?" he asked as he recovered.
"Looks like restraining an aggressive suspect, if you ask me," Gibbs replied calmly. "I'm a bit interested in hearing the answer, too. In English, if that's not too much trouble."
Hauser glared at each in turn before speaking. "You don't know what it's like," he finally said, spitting venom at Gracy. "You with your fancy upbringing and private schools and exclusive townhouses in Alexandria. You think we have so much in common, both of us children of German immigrants, but you have no idea how different we are. My father was a steel engineer who decided to move to Pennsylvania just in time to see the steel industry die away. I grew up in a piss-poor town in the shadow of a dead steel mill, trying to live up to the expectations of a man who resorted to owning a gas station because that was all he could find to do and a woman who did nothing but put up with his disappointment and bake apple strudel. I joined the Army because I wanted to get out of the house and out of their world." His glare increased. "And you! The daughter of college professors, married to the grandson of a goddamn Middle Eastern oil sheik, showing off your fancy cars and fancy home every chance you got. You know what I got for my troubles? A government-wage job, a wife who had to continue working as a kindergarten teacher so we could support our four daughters and send them to school and pay for four goddamn weddings. So yeah, I wanted my piece of the verdammt pie, and if I could teach the almighty Gracys a lesson while doing so—"
"A lesson?" she asked in disbelief. "You arranged for my husband to be captured, tortured, and killed, and you call that a fucking lesson?" She shook her head, her expression pained. "I'm the middle of three children, Lars, did you know that? My younger brother is a police officer and my older brother is a high school German teacher. We went to public school growing up, because college professors don't really make as much money as they should. I worked all through high school, and I went to Texas A&M because they offered me a scholarship if I would swim for them." She paused and glared again. "Yeah, Scott's grandfather has money, but how excited do you think a Jordanian oiler would be when his only daughter—his only child—tells him thank you for the boarding schools and British medical school, but now I'm going to go and marry this American soldier? Scott never saw one penny of that oil money, and Maddie and Nate aren't going to see any of it, either." She shook her head again. "We were solidly middle-class, Lars; we always were and we always will be, and we were happy with that. We were pretty goddamn happy with that." A few stray tears had fallen on her cheeks, but she ignored them. "So hau ab, Lars. Don't count on Irene or your daughters visiting you in Guantanamo." She didn't give him a chance to respond as she turned and calmly left the room.